The Fake Date
by Dark knightress
Summary: John accidentally asks Sherlock on a date, and Sherlock intentionally accepts. John has a super brief crisis about his sexuality, has a super scary dream, then gets super sick.


It was on the coldest day of December so far when John Watson decided to give Molly Hooper a crash course on dating and romance.

"You have to at least try to look interested, first of all. Happy interested."

This was in reference to Molly's forlorn, droopy-dog expression that may or may not have been in Sherlock Holmes's general direction.

John didn't try to suss that one out. He stepped in front of her, blocking off her view of Sherlock's profile curving into the fluorescent microscope.

Molly frowned harder, and tried to stretch her neck to look past John's body.

"No. No! Molly, what happened to Hugh?"

"Nothing," she said, giving up and slouching down on the stool.

"No, it's not nothing. What happened?"

"I didn't call him back," she mumbled.

"Oh, I know that," said John. "I haven't heard the end of _that_. But why? What was wrong with him?"

"I don't know, he wasn't my type!" said Molly.

"Not your type? He's intelligent. A doctor. He has two cats. He's tall, has black curly hair, is not married, or gay, or a crime lord, and he's single. What about that isn't your type?"

"I don't know," Molly said again, this time slower and more patronizingly. "I didn't realize I had to fall in love with every guy you threw at me from your clinic."

"It's because he pays attention to you, isn't it?" John said. Nearly said. He didn't say that.

Instead he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Instead he said, "Then what is your type?"

At that Molly's face fell even harder and she made a sharp turn in her chair back to the table and started writing in a folder.

"That's a serious question, Molly," John said, sliding along the table. "You're a beautiful woman. You can get any guy you want. Who is straight or not married or a priest or something. You just have to figure out what kind of guy you want."

"Come off it, John. Why are you so obsessed, suddenly?" she asked.

John leaned his elbows against the table. He'd been in Bart's for the past hour, waiting for Sherlock to finish 'one quick thing.' Every time he threatened to leave and continue on with his day, Sherlock would hop off the stool saying, "John I'm almost done, I promise. This is vital to the case!"

What case, John had no idea, because Sherlock hadn't had a case for the past two weeks. Maybe Sherlock thought he was so stupid that if Sherlock said the word 'case' with enough urgency, it would appeal to John's sense of duty and he would do whatever Sherlock said.

In actuality, John left his credit card on the coffee table after ordering takeout, and had no way of doing the groceries and getting home. He was just about ready to die of boredom.

"Because it makes me sad to see a beautiful, charming woman like you being alone on Christmas," John said.

"Really?" Molly asked, setting her pen down.

"Absolutely. Now it's 2017, we are no longer stuck in the boring old gender roles of the past. What do you say to a guy to get his attention?"

Molly bit her lip.

"Have you ever asked a guy out?" John asked.

Molly's nose twisted slightly, and John tapped his knuckles against the desk. "Any available guy. _Available_ guy."

"Not really."

"Not really," John repeated, straightening. "So, what would you say? How would you get his attention?"

"Um." Molly looked down and stuck her tongue out slightly. "Hi, my name is Molly, h-"

"Wrong. Wrong! No, this isn't grade school, Molly. You're filled with charm. Show some of it! Show off some pizzazz?"

"I don't have any of that."

"Of course you do. Ok, here- simple. Hi, can I buy you a drink? Boom. You've ingratiated yourself, and he now owes you at least one whole sentence. Now assuming he says no, what do you do?"

"No?" Molly said. "Um. Ok-"

"Perfect! You move on with your life. You've got a natural talent."

Molly smiled slightly and leaned her elbow on her folder.

"Now, what if he says yes. What will you say?"

"H...What will you have?"

John grinned. "A scotch, please."

She hesitated, then sat up straight. "Wonderful. My name is Molly."

"I'm John."

"So, John. What do you do?"

"Eeeh, no." John made a T sign with his hands. "No one wants to talk about work, ever, especially on a saturday at a bar. Try again."

"We're at a bar?" Molly asked.

"Of course we're at a bar, where else am I ordering a scotch?"

Molly's eyes flicked up as if she were genuinely in thought.

"Hurry up, come on, you've got ten seconds to keep my attention, let's go."

"Oh! Ok, ok, th-that's a lovely sweater," Molly said, sitting even straighter.

"Don't know where you're going with this, but thank you, Molly. Got it at Harrods."

"Wow. Expensive."

"I suppose."

They stared at each other for a few seconds. "I- I got…," Molly stood up, suddenly, and crossed her arms over her chest. "We- I- Cou- J-john... whatdoyouliketodoforfun?"

"I love rugby. Played a bit in my youth, and now I follow the game religiously. Do you like sports?" he asked.

"Not really."

They stared at each other for a few seconds more.

"You're losing me Molly."

"I- I um, what do you do? I- I mean-"

"I'm walking away, Molly!" John said, while backing away. "I'm taking my scotch and backing out the door!"

"No, wait! Where are you from? London originally? I'm from Salisbury!" Molly had started yelling for some reason, her hand clutched against her chest.

"AND. I'M. gone." John shrugged and walked back to her. "Not bad, Hooper."

"Not bad?" she asked. "You ran away from me!"

He waved his hand. "You just have to be a little more light on your feet. It was fine. Sherlock? How's it coming?"

They both turned to Sherlock, who had left the fluorescent microscope and was at the centrifuge. He didn't answer.

John sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Ok, so let's try again. I'll approach you this time, ok?"

Molly shook her head.

"Yes, yes, sit down. We're at a noisy bar on Broadway." He chauffeured Molly back to the tall, vinyl lab stool and leaned on the other side.

"Hi, I'm John," he started.

She shook her head and batted at the air. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. How come you're allowed to start with names?"

"Because I am not a novice, Molly. It takes years of skill and craft to get to this level," he said.

"Is that why you're happily married with children?" Molly asked.

John leaned back, his eyes going wide.

"Oh- oh, sorry! I didn't mean that!" she said. Her hands went over her eyes, and her ears turned a dangerous red.

"Moving on," John said decisively, before the awkwardness set in and consigned him to thirty minutes of pure silence. "What's your name?"

Molly shook her head violently, her ponytail flopping against her cheeks.

"I said, 'what's your name?'"

"Sherlock."

"What?" John asked.

Molly pointed at Sherlock. John turned. He was seated at the computer, typing. "Do Sherlock. I can't take this anymore."

"Take what?" John asked. "We're literally sitting in an empty lab by ourselves. It isn't real, Molly."

"Do Sherlock!"

John groaned. "Fine. _Sherlock._ Lovely name. Can I buy you a drink?"

No one answered.

"Well? Am I going to be talking to myself in here?" He asked, throwing his hands up.

Molly scowled. "I- I don't drink. It impedes the-the cognitive and muscular processes."

She threw a hand over her mouth to suppress her grin. John's eyebrows shot up, and an involuntary laugh escaped.

"Ok then. Can I get you anything else? A soda, maybe?"

"Ice water will be fine," she drawled.

"You know, a glass of red wine a night is said to enrich the body," John said. "I can corroborate that. I have an M.D. Here's your water." He mimicked sliding a glass to her.

"Bragging are we?" Molly replied. "I graduated Cambridge at 15 with a phD in chemistry. I can corroborate my own factoids."

"Factoids?" Cambridge? _PhD?"_ John laughed. "Well excuse me. So what do you do with that chemistry phD?"

Molly's mouth dropped, and her brow twisted. "How come-"

"Just roll with the punches, Molly, don't break character. So Sherlock, you already know what I do. What about you?"

She sighed and leaned on the table. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I created the position."

"A detective!" John gasped. "Do you work at the precinct?"

"I'd never work with those twits. I'm who Scotland Yard calls when they need help."

John pursed his lips, his eye squinting. "I don't think I've ever heard Sherlock say 'twit.'"

Molly slid off her seat. "You bore me. I'm leaving."

"Hey! Ok, hold on," John laughed, following her across the room. "Sherlock, it sounds like you have a wealth of interesting stories to tell."

"That I do. Far better than anything you'd read in the papers," she threw over her shoulder.

"I'd love to hear about them. So, Sherlock," John said, leaning suavely against the CBC analyzer. "If you're not doing anything next Saturday, how'd you like to go on a date with me? I know this lovely restaurant by the Thames."

"Ok."

They both jumped, whipping around like guilty children. John banged his elbow against the corner of the machine.

Sherlock looked at John, then briefly at Molly and turned back to the keypad of the CBC analyzer.

"Ok what?" John asked uneasily, robbing the notch of his arm.

"Ok." Sherlock straightened and began walking to the coat rack. "I'm done. Let's go John."

"Oh, thank god! Finally!" John sighed and followed him. "I'll see you, Molly. Don't forget to practice."

Molly didn't smile like he expected her to. Instead, she cocked her head thoughtfully, her brows coming down over her eyes as she watched them dress and leave.

* * *

Three days passed before Sherlock approached John who was vegging on the couch.

John had on his sweatpants and an undershirt, and a pack of day old sushi, scavenged from the back of the fridge. He was eating it with his fingers. A heavily edited episode of Breaking Bad was on. Sherlock stepped directly in front of him.

"Sher _lock_ ," John said, attempting to right himself like the beached whale he was.

"John, I have to step out for a few hours," Sherlock said, spending an inordinate amount of attention on his left cufflink. "But I'll try to manage my time smartly. 8pm is the usual time for events like this, so I'll try to be back by 6."

"Back for what?" John groaned. He had given up, and was staring at Sherlock's shoes.

Sherlock looked at John. "For-" he lowered his wrist, and his voice went soft. "For our date."

" _What_?" John asked.

Sherlock turned his head to the door, then down at his wrist again. He swallowed. "You did say 'next Saturday.' I suppose that could also mean next week."

An explosion erupted from the TV.

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you talking about?" John asked.

Sherlock's mouth opened, then closed. For a split second, before John could even process it, his face fell. But then he swiftly turned and went into his room without replying.

John scoffed. Commercials were on again. It was already 11.

Then the light dinged on above his head.

"Wait, did you say date?" he called to, predictably, no answer.

"That man is an utter nutcase," he muttered to himself.

But the world swirled around his brain. Date, date, date, date. What could Sherlock be talking about? Did they have another case where they would have to pretend to be dates? Did they have an appointment? Did he have an actual date to attend to?

Was it-

John sat up quickly, rice bits scattering to the ground. No, Sherlock didn't celebrate his birthday. He was probably safe on that front.

He thought about last year when he attempted to throw a get together for Sherlock. Only Molly had arrived on time, even though Mrs. Hudson lived downstairs. They played four different board games at the same time. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and him all against Sherlock.

Molly managed to beat him at Uno.

Molly.

Suddenly everything came rushing back to him. Sherlock had seemingly said "ok" out of nowhere, but it wasn't out of nowhere. It was about that fictional date John had proposed to Mol-lock.

John's brain finally processed Sherlock's expression from just a few minutes ago.

"Sherlock!" John scrambled to Sherlock's door, knocking rapidly. "Sherlock, I'm coming in!"

He poked his head through. He had know idea why he was feeling so urgent or what he even wanted to say, but there he was.

Sherlock was laying in bed, his shoes on, texting with the phone ridiculously close to his face. "What?" he asked sharply.

John balked. "Um...um…"

"Um, um, what?" Sherlock snapped.

John let his eyes flit around Sherlock's face briefly, the tight mouth, the red cheekbones, the tensed shoulders.

"I...I'm stupid." John swallowed and leaned against the threshold. "I ...I forgot today was saturday."

Immediately, Sherlock's expression softened, almost as if he were expecting John to stumble upon some new brand of stupidity. He let the phone rest on his chest. "That's pretty stupid, even for you."

"I know," John laughed, rather manically. "So, eight, you said? For our...date."

"Should I be back here at six? How far is the restaurant?"

"Ah. Ahahaha. It's a surprise. Get here at six though. That's a good idea," John said, his mind involuntarily flitting to that super exclusive hole in the wall restaurant on the Thames that was always booked solid. "Now about those errands of yours."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I hate surprises. I'll let it slide this time though." Then he looked down at his bouncing knees and did something funny with his face.

"What?" John asked. "What's that?"

Sherlock looked up, a startled, but wide and pure smile on his face, perhaps his first genuine smile since the year started.

John froze, and shut the door before he could respond. "Right! Well I have errands, too! I'll see you later!" He stopped only to shove on his sneakers and his coat, before flying out the door.

* * *

John paced the streets of London, a disheveled and bedraggled man. He ducked into his favorite pub ignoring the fact that it was eleven o'clock on a Saturday.

"Hey, Johnny-boy!" A woman called from the pool table.

"Hey, Cameron," John said vaguely, lifting his arm and going straight for the bar.

"Starting early, huh, Johnny?" the bartender said.

"Anything, Sheila, anything at all. I'm in a pickle," John said, pressing his fingers along the side of his nose. "I'm in a big pickle."

"You know, we serve pickles," Sheila said. "You want to try a pickle juice martini? It's been on our-"

"Anything, Sheila!" John snapped. "This is not the time!"

"Oop, ok," she said. "Be right back."

He leaned his head against his fist, and Sheila returned with a tall, thin glass.

John took a swig, and gagged. "What the fuck is this?"

"Pickle juice martini," she said, her brows coming together. "You said you wanted it."

"Did I? Oh, christ. I'm losing my goddamn mind."

"Oh noooo. What's up? Sherlock troubles?"

"Big time. We're...going on a _date_ this evening."

There was a silence. John peeked up from behind his hand.

"Ok," she said, her smile going a little stiff. "And then what?"

"We're going on a date!" he repeated louder.

"And? You go on dates all the time, don't you? Aren't you always and constantly eating at that awful Italian restaurant on Seaport?" asked Sheila.

"This isn't going out to eat, this is a real date! He thinks its a real romantic date!"

"Ok," Sheila said, spreading her hands out. "I have no idea what you're going on about. Don't go on the date then if it's giving you so much grief."

"But he looked so happy," John groaned. "He was actually _smiling."_

"Then go on the date, John! There are literally only two things you can do right now! I have no idea why you're freaking out, you're already dating," she muttered. "Is it because you're roommates? That's not a-"

"Haha, very funny. Let's get serious, _please_. I'm actually panicking right now."

She wrinkled her nose. "Fine. Then what is your actual serious problem, because I'm not seeing it?"

"Oh you don't?" John asked, cocking his head. "You don't see it? Besides the huge, red, whopping fact that I'm _straight?!"_

She huffed out a laugh. "Haha, ok, but let's get serious."

"Sheila!"

"What? I'm trying to be serious and you're the one continuing to tell jokes. Not funny, by the way. Ok a little funny, but seriously. Tell me why you can't go on a date with Sherlock. You're wildly compatible, you obviously find each other attractive. Being roommates shouldn't be such an obstacle."

John's jaw went slack. "Sheila. Sheila. I'm STRAIGHT."

She stared at him for a second, her lip quirking up, then straightening. "What?"

"I date women!"

At that she rolled her eyes. "John, please. It's not the 1950s anymore. You don't have to be straight on Mondays and gay on Saturday. Let's be modern. The term is bisexual."

John blew up. He slammed the counter and stood, his voice breaking. "I'M FUCKING STRAIGHT, SHEILA."

"Good one, Johnny," someone called from the back.

"W-wha- straight? You? _You,_ John Watson?" she asked. "You're not! You're harboring secret lust for your gay roommate, but won't go for it, because you live together! That's what _you_ said, it came straight from your mouth!"

"I never said anything like that!"

"You've had sex with men!"

"W-wha-what?" John spluttered. "Am I not allowed to- to experiment? That's got nothing to do with-"

"How many times are you going to experiment, Johnny, I'd think you'd figure it by the fifth time!"

John had nothing to say to that, so he just said, "What!" in the most affronted tone he could muster. "So? You've had sex with a man before! Does that suddenly make you straight?"

"You're sitting in a lesbian bar, John! We're both sitting in a lesbian bar!"

"This is the closest-...When Harry introduced me to this bar-...I don't have to explain myself to you! I'm going home!"

"Ok, ok, ok! You're straight! You're straight! Just sit down!" Sheila said, reaching over the bar to physically pull John back into his seat. "Let's just calm down. You're straight."

"I am!" He leaned his face into his hands. "I _am."_

She tipped a bottle of peach smirnoff into a mug and pushed it into his face. "Here, drinky-drinky. Take your medicine. That's a good lad."

John tipped back the whole cup, and exhaled through his teeth with a growl. "I'm straight."

"Yes. You are..'.straight'."

" _Don't_ say it like that," he said. He fumbled into his coat pockets. "I've got to call Sherlock. I've got to end this before it gets out of hand."

"No, no, no, no, wait a second," Sheila said, snatching his cell out of his hands. "Let's think about this."

"Think about what? That I'm a straight man cancelling a fake date with another man? That's textbook. Give me my phone."

"What's the harm in going? It could be fun! It won't be any different from the other times you've gone out with Sherlock, right?" she asked, clutching the phone to her chest.

"Sheila, give me the goddamned phone."

"Please listen to me. _Please_. I've been exactly where you're at. Don't do anything rash. Give yourself time to brea-"

" _Sheila!"_

"You'll disappoint him!" she said, shielding her face with the phone. "Didn't you say how happy Sherlock was? Won't he be so disappointed?"

John paused, his face dipping into a heavy frown, his hand falling lax.

"Sherlock thinks you're taking him on a date, and I bet he's so excited. You're just going to take that away from him?"

He covered his eyes and leaned onto the bar. "What am I going to do?"

Sheila bit her lip. "What do you _want_ to do?"

"I want," John sat up and made a swipe for the phone. "To cancel the date!"

"No! Not what you think you have to do, but what you really, really, in your heart of hearts want to do?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"Just think, just close your eyes and envision your future. Do it. Close your eyes."

"Oh my god," John moaned.

"Just do it and I'll give you your phone."

John closed his eyes tightly, frowning.

"Now picture yourself going home, taking a nice hot shower, shampooing your hair and all that. You take five deep, deep breaths. Really. Do it in real life."

John sighed but complied.

"You pop a pasty in the microwave and it comes out hot and fluffy. You take a bite and it fills you right up."

John's eyebrows furrowed down, confused, but he kept quiet.

"You go into your room, and dry off your hair and your body. You get a nice crisp shirt and suit from your closet, and spray on a little cologne. You're feeling fresh and sharp and completely calm. Then you go out into the living room and there's Sherlock- keep your eyes _closed._ I'm not done."

John sighed and leaned against the bar.

"He's all tall and long and poured into a dark blue suit. He's very handsome, and he's smiling at you."

His heart dipped into his stomach.

"He leads the way, and you put a hand on his back to lead him out of the house."

"Ok, Sheila, that's enough. I'm not-"

"Ok, ok! You don't touch him! You just follow him out and there's a cab waiting. Everything's cool. You're both calm and ready for whatever happens. You take four more deep breaths."

John scrubbed a hand over his face. He inhaled and exhaled, waiting for the surge of adrenaline to empty out of his valves.

"He slides into the cabs, and you follow, your knees almost touching. Sherlock's hands are on the seat and your hands are folded neatly in your lap. You feel no pressure to do anything but wait to get to the restaurant."

But that wasn't true. John was feeling a mighty pressure right in his gut. He was startled at how vividly he could see the portrait Sheila was painting. His hands were clenching under the bar, because in the fantasy he couldn't stop them from sliding over right into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock would accept it, of course, the same way he had accepted the date and the eight o'clock reservation.

John realized he could easily hold Sherlock's hand and take a walk around the block, or put and arm around his waist. The only thing stopping him was him.

And his straightness.

"Change the scene, Sheila."

"O-oh, ok. You're in the restaurant. Sitting. It's not too loud, not too bright. You've got a seat at a back table. You're eating Mongolian cuisine. It's good and there are a lot of small dishes around. You're laughing at something Sherlock said, and Sherlock is happy that he's made you laugh. Again, you feel no pressure to do anything. This is just like every other dinner you've ever had with him. You finish eating and pay the bill. You go back in the cab and drive home. You're full and satisfied."

And John is leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder, because he's dizzy from the wine. He puts a hand on Sherlock's thigh. John squeezes his eyes tighter.

"You stop in front of your house and get out of the cab."

And he pulls Sherlock out by the hand and tugs him up the step to the front door.

"You walk to your house. There's a slightly chilly breeze that's helping to keep you awake."

Without fanfare he pulls Sherlock down for a brief kiss as a thank you for the sweet evening. Sherlock goes pink and he drops the keys, and leans into it.

"And you open the door and go downstairs to your flat."

"Downstairs?" John repeats, his eyes popping open. "We live upstairs."

"Fine, upstairs. Then you-"

"No, you're bad at this. Give me my phone," he says standing. "I'm going home."

"Oh John, listen! This is not the crisis you think it is! There's literally no pressure on you to do anything or be anything! You can do whatever you want! You're an adult! There are no rules!"

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked, zipping his coat.

"Being straight doesn't mean forcing yourself to do or not do things. Live your life for yourself, not some dictionary definition."

"Nice one, Sheila. Where'd you get it? Hot Topic?"

"Do what makes you happy, John!" she called after him. "Do what makes you happy!"

* * *

John arrived to an empty and dark flat. The winter sky had clogged the sun with clouds, and had laced the walls with shadows.

He sat in his chair, then the couch, then went to lay down on his bed.

It wasn't lost that while he was playing musical chairs, Sherlock was very much under the impression that a date was happening that evening.

John didn't have the heart, soul, or strength to call him.

Ok, so hypothetically speaking what if he was bisexual? What did that mean? What did that have to mean?

It didn't mean he was automatically promised to Sherlock, right? He could go out with anyone he wanted. That's what Sheila had said. He could marry Idris Elba if he wanted to.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself with Idris Elba, yet the moment he did he was back on the top stair burying his freezing fingers into Sherlock's scarf. He got out his own keys and opened the door, and now Sherlock was pulling him up into the flat and into his bedroom. Sherlock kissed him hungrily, his fingers trying to find their way under John's clothes.

But then there was a loud bang in the living room. They stumbled outside, falling over each other.

A thief had picked up Sherlock's forgotten keys from the stairs and had used it to get inside. The thief was over seven feet and had two guns. He and Sherlock fought the robber as valiantly as they could, but they kept shrinking and the robber kept getting bigger.

Sherlock turned to him. "It's the only way, John."

And somehow John knew that meant shrinking extremely small and invading the robber like a microbe, just like in Antman.

"Sherlock, wait!" John said, but Sherlock put a hand on his cheek, kissed him one last time and turned away.

"I've always loved you, John. I'm sorry I couldn't give you a happier ending."

Someone was holding John back, and then Sherlock was gone. The robber suddenly exploded into tiny water droplets.

John screamed. He held the air, wondering which subatomic particle was Sherlock. He didn't care. He kissed his hands, and suddenly he felt something materializing in front of him, something solid. He kept his eyes closed, and kept kissing. Then Sherlock's weight was on him, and his arms around him, and tears flowed down John's cheek.

Everyone around them started clapping. It was like the scene at the very end of the Titanic. John realized that this was a dream and Sherlock really was dead, and that if he opened his eyes he'd wake up. He kept his eyes shut, kissing Sherlock and crying, despair growing so deep in his chest it was almost choking him-

John snorted himself awake. His face was wet from drools, sweat, and...tears? He had been crying in his sleep for some reason he couldn't really remember. All he knew is that he was super relieved that he was awake and that he lived in a world where Sherlock was alive.

Also, he felt like pure and utter shit. He took a few deep breaths, wondering if this was an after effect from that bizarre dream he had.

No, he actually was ill. His entire body ached, and his head was both dizzy and pounding at the same time.

He stared up at the ceiling, his breathing labored. He was in the middle of some weird, sexuality shock, wasn't he? The physical manifestation of all his whacked out hormones and adrenaline.

He burped.

Oh no...the sushi. But it had looked so good that morning!

He sat up. He still had some of the residual panic from the dream. A world without Sherlock, where he'd never see Sherlock again. Never hear Sherlock pounding up the stairs or screaming at him to turn the television down, or drag him out on a midnight stake out.

John exhaled. The emotions that provoked were not unlike the emotions he had the day he got shot, wondering if the bullet hit a main artery, and if that was his last day on earth.

"Ok, enough of that," he said out loud, surprised at how rusty his voice sounded. "Time to get up."

His phone said that it was 3:12. Two hours and 38 minutes until Sherlock arrived.

He heaved himself from the bed, and dragged himself into the shower. The water hurt his skin. The pressure was too much, so without soaping or shampooing, he dragged himself out and to his room.

He lay naked on his sheets, sopping wet, feeling very much like a worm that had gotten lost on a summer sidewalk. The phone now said 3:16. Two hours and 34 minutes until Sherlock arrived.

A vision of Sherlock disappearing into an atom sized particle drifted into John's head.

He had said something devastating before he left. John couldn't remember.

'Yada yada yada, now we can never be together' or something.

It wouldn't take turning into a proton to keep them apart. All it would take was John's stupid, big mouth.

Laying there, battered by illness and pain, John could quite sharply see his feelings for Sherlock. They had outgrown the heterosexual friendship category years ago. He had watched them expand, yet never bothered to let them out of their tiny little cage.

He was a modern man. He could say he loved his friends. He could talk about his feelings. He could think Sherlock was handsome. He wasn't confined by a constructed prison of masculinity. He could have dreams about Sherlock. The brain was a wild organ. He could feel utterly fulfilled when with Sherlock. He could feel empty inside when going on dates with other women. That's just the nature of 21st century urban isolation, baby.

He could easily imagine spending the rest of his life with Sherlock, and have a near panic attack thinking about having to get married to someone else and starting a "real family."

"Oh, Christ," John said. "Oh, Christ. I'm in love with Sherlock."

* * *

"John, where-"

Sherlock stopped short when he walked through the door. John was bundled up on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket.

Somewhere between falling in and out of dreams, John mustered the strength to order a full course Mongolian dinner and have it delivered. He was absolutely positive that he wouldn't make it out of the flat for anything else, especially after the five minute nightmare of trying to get down the stairs to the kitchen. He hadn't managed to take the food out of the bag and arrange it on a plate like he had been planning, but he did light a few scented candles and place them around the tiny table. Their conflicting aromas, mixed with the food gave the flat quite the smell.

"We're not going out," Sherlock said flatly.

"I'm dying Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You decided to eat week old sushi eight hours before our date. How...convenient."

"I didn't do this on purpose."

"You could have just cancelled it. You didn't have to poison yourself," Sherlock said, sweeping off his coat and dropping it on a chair.

"Sher-" Sherlock went into his room and slammed the door. "-lock."

With a great big sigh, John unwrapped himself from his blanket cocoon, letting it hang around his shoulders like a cape, and shuffled to the bedroom.

He had already thrown up once, but still felt a dead weight rolling around the bottom of his belly. He'd have to tread carefully in the next few hours.

He opened the door without knocking, leaning on it for strength. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands and his elbows against his knees.

"John, would you give me a few minutes! You know I wouldn't leave you like that, but I just came back from an especially grueling investigation and I'd like-"

He broke off when he saw John, pale as a fish belly, standing in a slightly wrinkled, but still pristine suit.

"If you would please," John breathed. "Get dressed...and join me...for dinner."

"You're...you look very handsome, John." He blinked a few times, as if he hadn't meant to say it. "That's a lovely," he swallowed. "Suit." 'Uncertain' looked foreign on Sherlock's face, but it seemed to be the only thing he could express at the moment.

"I know. Wish I could," John took a deep breath, pushing back a roll of weakness. Standing was doing him no favors. "Say the same...for you."

That wasn't really fair. Sherlock was dressed in his usual bespoke dark blue outfit, but John was trying to make a point.

Sherlock looked slightly affronted, grasping at that old familiar emotion, but it was weak.

He opened his mouth twice without saying anything, then he stood. He picked up the dragging ends of the blanket it, and tucked it tightly around John, avoiding his eyes, then spun him around and led him to the couch.

He went into the kitchen and began banging pots around and pouring water.

"What are you doing?" John called, to no answer. He had no strength to stand and investigate. He could only glare in the general direction of the kitchen. Sherlock didn't come out. A few minutes later, there was the whistle of the kettle and Sherlock placed a steaming cup of tea and cold toast on the table next to the takeout.

His face was grim, as if he were walking towards his own execution.

"Sherlock?" John asked. He hadn't moved from the position Sherlock had placed him in.

Sherlock didn't answer. He was staring intently at the cup of tea, his fingers tapping against his thigh.

"Have you short-circuited? Am I going to need to call an ambulance for the both of us?"

He didn't so much as smile.

John bit his lip, and tried to see the world from Sherlock's eyes. "If you're having second thoughts-"

"No," Sherlock said immediately. He tentatively looked up. "I'll get dressed."

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was sitting stiffly next to John, who had just woken up from another half dream, dressed knife sharp.

John waited for Sherlock to open the takeout, blow out a candle, _say something,_ but Sherlock just sat, his nervous energy whirling out and disturbing John.

"Ok, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said easily. His voice was smooth as anything.

"I already told you I didn't do this on purpose, so if-"

"I believe you," he replied.

"Then why are you sitting like a puppet with its strings cut?"

Sherlock shot him a nasty look. "Is that how you talk to all your dates?"

His face shot with pink even as he said it, as if he hadn't meant to acknowledge the fact they were on a date at all. But he didn't break eye contact until John did, and then he folded his arms.

"My dates are usually happy to be with me. I won't be upset if you want to reschedule."

"As if I'd do anything to spare you being upset. If I wanted to reschedule, I'd say so."

"Glad to know you really want to be here," John replied. "You could at least get a chair to put across from me so that we can look at each other."

He expected another retort, but instead, Sherlock did exactly as he said.

John was puzzled, but attempted to press his luck. "And you should start eating before it becomes totally cold. I got out the nice plates. I would've made you a plate, but the food smell is too much for me at the moment."

Again, Sherlock obeyed. He unpacked the food, going so far as to make himself a plate before saying, "I didn't prepare to eat this early. And I'd feel odd eating if you weren't eating."

And just like that, John understood what Sherlock's hang up was.

"Aha. Ok. Sherlock, come back here, please. Sit next to me."

Sherlock frowned, but did so, and let out a small yelp when John keeled sideways, right into his lap. He shifted, until he was comfortably arranged on the couch, and he could look up at Sherlock.

"That's better. Now, take your left hand and put it on my head."

Sherlock raised his hand, dubious, and stopped before it made contact. "John, are you-...you're not mocking me, are you?"

"Of course not. Just do it. Good. Now, what did you do today?"

The hand on his head laid there heavily as Sherlock talked, sparingly at first, then more ardently. After a few minutes, it began moving of its own volition, carding through John's hair, and playing with his ears.

John looked up sleepily, half listening, and half succumbing to relaxation. It had occurred to him that Sherlock might have a had a plan to carry him through their date that evening. With the sudden changes, he was suddenly lost at sea, unsure with how to proceed and deal with what was basically a six o'clock take out dinner in fancy suits. He couldn't take any cues from John, because at the moment John was worth less than a bump on a log.

John decided to have mercy on him, and take them to a comfortable place where Sherlock wouldn't have to rely on plans. He unwrapped the blanket, and umbrella'd it around Sherlock's waist.

"John," Sherlock said abruptly, fingers not stopping. "Are you enjoying this?"

"Hm? Oh yeah, it's fine," John said, blinking.

" _Fine_?" Sherlock spat, looking like he was two seconds from flinging John from his lap.

John rolled his eyes. "I'm loving this Sherlock. I'm not lying, or trying to spare your feelings. I'm serious."

Sherlock searched his face for a few seconds before giving a satisfied nod. "Good. Because I- I'm also...loving this. I was very pleased when you...when you invited me on a date. I would have never been able to work up the courage."

"Sherlock Holmes without courage? Inconceivable!"

"It's not funny, John," Sherlock said softly. "You don't know how long I-...I never thought this would happen. I was terrified that I'd have to spend the rest of my life watching you, and wanting. Knowing you'd never see me the way I saw you. It hurt."

John caught Sherlock's other hand with his own, almost without thinking, entwining their fingers. Having to sit in the face of such blatant, pure truth was almost searing him to the bone. Sherlock deserved far better-

"I didn't mean to ask you out on a date. It was an accident."

Sherlock froze, his shoulders going stiff, then relaxing. "Alright," he said carefully. He sounded neither offended nor surprised. Just tired. "What was it then? I heard you clearly at Barts."

John shut his eyes tight, hoping to spare himself from whatever was in Sherlock's eyes. "I was pretending with Molly. It was practice."

"Practice," Sherlock repeated. But to his credit, he didn't throw John off his lap and storm out like he very much deserved to do.

"And I didn't want to disappoint you, so I decided to take you on a real date."

"Out of pity," Sherlock said. He extricated his hands.

"No! I panicked and I went to the pub and Sheila, she-"

"The lesbian bar."

"-said that I was bisexual and that I was in love with you and I freaked out and then I got sick."

Sherlock looked at the melting scented candles dripping on the wood. "The thought of falling in love with me made you sick. And yet you persisted to order-"

"No, Sherlock! It wasn't you! How could it be you? Look what I've done for you!"

"You ordered take out for me."

Well, when he said it like that it didn't sound so nice.

"No, no, no. Please listen. Please. Look at me. The only reason I'm not lying in my bed, in a flannel robe knocked unconscious by two different types of sleeping pills is you, Sherlock Holmes."

"You didn't want to disappoint me. We both know you have a tendency towards the sentimental," Sherlock said, his voice sounding normal, but the breaths in between sounding wavering and blurry. Still, he didn't stand up.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John gritted out. "The realization that you are the single most important thing in my life has rendered me nearly godlike in my ability to work around the mass of rotting fish sitting in my guts, you blind idiot. Now put your hands back where they were, or so help me-"

The doorbell rang.

Sherlock jumped as if he'd been shocked, then looked down at John wistfully.

John rolled his eyes again. "Go get the door, Sherlock."

Sherlock carefully levied him off his lap, and placed a pillow under his head before answering the door.

There was silences for a few moments, before Sherlock came running up the stairs with a bottle of wine and a silk pillowcase.

"These came for you."

John wrinkled his forehead. He did not remember ordering those, but perhaps he did buy them.

Some time after he ordered the food, John realized what a blessing it was to be in 2017. People would deliver things directly to your bedroom door. All it took were the dozen or so numbers on his credit card, Granted, he would probably have to cancel that same credit card in the morning, because he had no idea about half the stores he used it on.

"Um, put it in a cupboard I guess? Except the pillowcase. It's yours."

Sherlock slanted his eyes at them, before going back into the kitchen.

He came out holding a bouquet of dahlias.

"Oh, yes," John said, some of the past few hours coming back to him. He had thought it a good idea to order flowers, and he had put them in the freezer for a reason he could no longer remember. "Find a vase for them, please? I forgot."

But Sherlock wasn't listening. He was stalking around the flat, shifting the TV, moving boxes, and digging in the stove. He pulled out three boxes of chocolates, several more single stemmed flowers, a tie, two teddy bears, and four bottles of wine.

"You were going to paint the flowers black," he said, holding up a black spray can he found rolled behind a bookshelf. "Why?"

"You know," John said, yawning. "Black Dahlia and all that. Cliche, I know, but-"

"The what?"

They stared at each other.

"The Black Dahlia, Sherlock. The most famous true crime case in the world?"

"Apparently not the most famous, if the only consulting detective in the world doesn't know it," Sherlock said tartly.

"Christ, you know why I bought the paint, but not...why. You're remarkable."

"But...but you like that about me," Sherlock replied hesitantly.

"Sherlock, I love that about you," John said.

Sherlock smiled at the wine bottle, then at John. "You actually do."

He carefully set his gifts down, then went back to maneuver himself under John. John caught his fingers again, and brought it up to his cheek. He felt the promise of a grand, rollicking future unraveling before them.

"Sherlock, I-" he inhaled sharply. "Quick. Kiss me, quick!"

That was even too much for Sherlock Holmes to process. "What?"

John growled in frustration and pulled Sherlock down. It took a whole second for Sherlock to orient himself and tilt his head to match John's lips, and shiver at the sharp tug of his fingers. Their tongues met briefly, before John shoved him back.

"Good," John breathed. "Because that's the last kiss we're having tonight."

Then, he grabbed the paper takeout bag from the table and threw up in it.

The end.

* * *

Shoot me a review! Hope you have a great 2018! And also that you enjoyed this story!


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